


Crime Scene Procedure for Death by Drowning

by paxlux



Series: proper procedure [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lies back in bed and listens to the notes and pictures them gathering around Sherlock’s feet like water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crime Scene Procedure for Death by Drowning

**Author's Note:**

> This was written quickly, so apologies for the possible mess and this hasn’t been de-Americanized past anything I do on the fly. In some vague time after “The Great Game.” For whitereflection, on the occasion of her birthday.
> 
> Please do not repost anywhere else without my express authorization, this includes PDFs and downloadable files.

It’s dark and there’s a noise downstairs. Then music, and John sighs from his bed, where he’s sitting, startled into waking, adrenaline slipping into his spine.

Sherlock paces as he plays, John can tell, because the music seems to move, back and forth back and forth, in a wave of silver sounds and the song Sherlock’s playing is low, melancholy, the notes coming from the violin like slow rain.

He’s not usually so taken by such things, but Sherlock makes the world different. John likes a pint and chips and sitting in front of the telly before he nods off. He likes a cuppa with a blanket across his knees and a biscuit, maybe a bit of toast. He’s comfortable in his cotton button-down shirts with his jumpers, the jumpers he gets to wear again since he’s a civilian, one of the simple things he missed being in the military. Jumpers. Tea in cups. Chinese takeaway and a cosy chair and the absolute hominess of the flat. Books he can read in one sitting, provided he’s there for hours.

With Sherlock, the world is like a painting John saw once. Everything is vivid and the edges are blurred together and there are shades of colour you usually don’t see around you because they’ve been flung there, onto the artist’s canvas, all bleeding into each other, without end until John can put a frame around it.

Sherlock makes everything complex and it’s bloody _fantastic_ ; John’s never in danger of dying from boredom, no matter how much Sherlock claims he can die of boredom, and John meanly likes to point out it’s a physiological impossibility, regardless of Sherlock’s assertions he _is_ an impossibility and thus anything happening to him on a physiological level is perfectly possible, in a twisted logical way.

John thinks Sherlock doth protest too much.

He lies back in bed and listens to the notes and pictures them gathering around Sherlock’s feet like water; soon, the entire room will be swimming, the music up to Sherlock’s ankles and the furniture will be taking on that uncomfortable look, where it might start floating.

If Sherlock keeps pacing, he’ll create his own tide and there will be waves crashing everywhere, like when John was little and in the bath, making imaginary boats sink with a push of his hands.

It must be one hell of a problem, Sherlock’s playing as if the devil’s paying him, everything wrung out of each draw of the bow, John’s only heard him play like this one other time, and that was when they were healing, after the pool. After Moriarty.

His ribs still twinge occasionally, usually after they’ve done a lot of running.

When he imagined coming back to London, John never imagined this. He wanted to be in the city because it’s alive, all the time, there’s light and sound and life everywhere, every hour of the day. The city has so many possibilities, it makes John dizzy and he couldn’t be anywhere else. He fell in love with London during his time at Bart’s, getting Indian at two in the morning from the tiny restaurant that catered to students, finding lost little shops and wandering by the Thames with the flow of the water and people-watching. John loves to people-watch, though he’s certainly not as good at it as Sherlock.

John’s stories for other people are simple, though he would work in an affair or complicated love triangle or tragic disease or a demanding job.

Sherlock blows those away like smoke, when they go to the park or just around the London streets and John forces him to be in a general place for a definitive amount of time so his brain can process something different for a change.

He gets that lightheaded feeling around Sherlock, when the detective tilts his head and looks at someone and then all but lays out their life for John to sift through: the way she’s tied her scarf, turned up the collar of her coat, on which arm she carries her purse, how her shoes are new but her skirt is old, she continuously checks her phone every few steps and glances around as she balances a coffee and her lipstick has been refreshed in the last twenty minutes. Each connection is true and honest and sometimes Sherlock has to make leaps, but they _work_ and John knows somehow Sherlock’s right, though his guesses can be off the mark because John went and stood by the woman on the kerb, pretending to wait for the light to change, and he asked her the time, so he could see the one item Sherlock was uncertain about: her watch.

The watch was shiny and gold, delicate like a bracelet and Sherlock grinned. “Single, but playing mistress to a banker. How tedious.”

The music has changed downstairs, but it’s still slow and melancholy and John turns his head into the pillow briefly. The song is tugging at him, so sad, so sad, and he doesn’t think Sherlock’s mood always corresponds to the music he’s playing, but this sounds.

New.

He’s been watching Sherlock for weeks now because at the pool, he’d never seen a look like that on a man’s face, outgunned and unmoored, as if he’d lost his entire centre of gravity. And it broke something inside him to see that on Sherlock, the man who is haughtily confident of almost everything he does, his brain telling him he’s right in a world gone completely mad.

It was because of John.

Sherlock asking if he’s said something wrong, Sherlock looking to him for a second opinion on whatever logical groundwork he’s just laid, Sherlock dashing out the door only to return and demand John’s presence, “aren’t you coming along, surely you wouldn’t want to miss this, it’s severed heads, John, _severed heads_.”

Moriarty menacing Sherlock, and that was worse than anything John had experienced in war or peacetime, Moriarty threatening to burn the heart out of Sherlock. John still hears it in his sleep, that voice echoing off the walls and water, Moriarty wanting to absolutely obliterate his friend.

Friend. The music shifts and John gets out of bed. There’s more to it.

He drags on a jumper, one of his comfy ones he sleeps in when it gets too cold, and these new pyjamas are a little too big, he catches the hems with his toes, the floor chilly under his bare feet.

Sherlock destroyed his old pyjamas in a dyeing accident, or so he claims; John found them in the bathtub, smelling of chemicals, with holes being eaten through the fabric at an unnerving rate, and he first worried whether the chemicals would eat through the tub, then he yelled for a good ten minutes about how he can’t even leave his _clothing_ unattended, much less finding undesirable things in the fridge, breadbox, kettle, pans, and one memorable discovery, under his chair. He was barefoot that time too, the incident with the Thing Under His Chair. He really should know better.

“Those were my _pyjamas_ , Sherlock! I know _you_ don’t sleep, but some of us have to and it can’t be _too much to ask_ for you to—“

“Just buy a new pair, John,” Sherlock said, waving a hand with his _what is this fuss_ expression. “Or sleep naked.”

John choked on whatever he was going to say next and the rest of that day was spent in silence because he didn’t trust himself to string words together; he should know better than to—

He really should just know better with Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn’t see him come into the room, so John leans on the back of his chair as Sherlock walks to the windows, repaired finally, bloody hell, it was too chilly and with the windows gone, John was reminded of the entire string of events, culminating with how Sherlock planned to go to the pool alone, even if it was for John’s safety.

And that turned out oh-so well.

Windows repaired, a bit of warmth in the flat and Sherlock came as close to apologising as ever in hospital, staring at John with a look like he wished he could just for a moment put his brain in John’s head and then John would understand _everything_.

The violin sings dark grey to John and Sherlock’s hair is wild where he’s run his hands through it and John watches Sherlock’s wrists as he plays.

A real problem, a true one, because Sherlock stands at the window, scowling, notes pulled from the instrument like tears and John licks his lips, tastes salt and waits.

When he turns and sees John, Sherlock stops and the silence is loud after all the music.

“John,” Sherlock says, his usual greeting, and his eyes are bright as if he has a fever. “Either I woke you or you weren’t sleeping.”

“One or the other. You figure it out.”

Sherlock laughs under his breath. “I woke you.”

“Is this a new case?”

“You are an ongoing case, John,” Sherlock says, setting the violin down on their table-desk combination and John starts.

“What, that’s not—what.”

“Oh, you meant…yes, a new case. Lestrade texted me this morning and—“

“Hold on, _this morning_ , just now? Or you mean, yesterday morning? Because technically it’s morning now.”

“Yes, yes, yesterday morning, not _this_ morning,” Sherlock says, impatient, then he stops, squints at John. “Are we going to have the heliocentric universe discussion again and how it’s somewhat ‘proven’ by the passage of time, or rather, how man measures time because time is actually—“

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John says, gripping the back of the chair. He has to get Sherlock to focus and this has become his job: getting Sherlock to focus. “Yesterday morning. Lestrade’s text.”

“Ah, yes, a dead granny and the two grandchildren left in her care vanished without a trace.”

“All right, but you’re just now working it out?” John counts in his head. “Almost nineteen hours later.”

“No, no, I texted him three hours ago and told him to check with the children’s uncle since his car was blue.” Sherlock sweeps past John into the kitchen, his robe swishing against John’s leg and John sighs because it means he woke Lestrade, yet again, but Sherlock’s still talking. “No, this is. Something else altogether.”

“So, a different case.”

He thinks about Sherlock saying, You’re an ongoing case, and Sherlock won’t look at him, fiddling with the kettle as if he doesn’t know what it’s for.

“I’ll make the tea,” he says, rescuing Sherlock because otherwise, this could be a comedy of errors and he needs Sherlock to focus. “A different case.”

“Of a sort.”

“Of a sort.”

Sherlock tips his head, mocking. “Yes, John, _of a sort_ , if we keep this up, we’ll only speak in echoing loops and never get anywhere logically or communicatively worthwhile—“

“Murder?” John yawns.

“Murder? No.”

Almost too late, John thinks to check the kettle for a liver, like last time. No liver, no organs, no phalanges. He sniffs. No mould. "Robbery."

"Stolen baubles, no."

Now Sherlock's moved on to fiddling with a pair of scissors and John busies himself, settling the kettle, pushing the button, because after the last fiasco with a tea kettle, he'd bought an electric one which Sherlock almost appropriated, clapping his hands like an excited child with a new toy, but John tried to put a stop to it.

‘Tried’ being the operative word.

This is their third kettle. One of the others is currently residing under the sink in a state of what can be called hazardous waste material and the other went missing after John smelled something like burning hair.

He can only try with Sherlock. "A locked room robbery? No, a locked room murder and no discernible wounds? A locked room and no body, but it’s there somewhere? Perhaps an orangutan?"

Dropping the scissors, Sherlock scoffs, absentminded, muttering in his _how dare you_ tone, “This isn’t Poe, nothing so fanciful,” his hands already reaching for something else and John's well on his way to becoming truly angry.

“Is this bloody Twenty Questions?” Sherlock can never just _answer_ a question and John listens to the kettle burble, ignoring Sherlock’s glare. “Do I have to keep guessing?”

“You shouldn’t guess,” Sherlock says, “you should know.”

“Well, not all of us live in your head, so I can’t know, now can I?”

And the kettle is louder, boiling nicely, and Sherlock doesn’t respond, so John looks at him. Really looks.

He’s leaning against their tiny kitchen table, currently littered with cut newspapers and adhesive, as if he was attempting decoupage or ransom notes, God help them if it’s either or both, and he stares at the kettle like it’s done him a personal injustice.

To Sherlock, the universe has done him a personal injustice.

John isn’t surprised, except for the uncertain bend in Sherlock’s shoulders, the thready beat of his pulse in his neck and his fingers curve as if he’s still playing, somewhere in his mind.

He suddenly doesn't remember the last time Sherlock slept. Whatever this problem is, it's playing merry hell with Sherlock and John's anger evaporates into concern.

“Sherlock.” He puts a hand on the detective’s shoulder and he’s so warm to the touch, John is becoming concerned Sherlock does have a fever. He rubs little circles, soothing, so maybe Sherlock will tell him what’s the matter. “Sherlock.”

Then Sherlock glances at John, eyes bright, that colour John’s never been able to define, but it reflected light at the pool as if he’d been a creature come from the water, his true nature there in his eyes and John sees it, the way Moriarty saw it.

He sees _more_ and Sherlock says, “You’re an ongoing case, John.”

His voice vibrates into John right before Sherlock kisses him.

It is feverish, messy, Sherlock capturing John with his mouth and hands, and John can only kiss back, tasting, because he’s wanted to taste this, the expression on Sherlock’s face at the pool when John was there and Sherlock looked broken, the look on his face betraying a sense of loss.

He has a heart and John wants to taste it, slipping his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock makes a noise in the back of his throat.

John slips his fingers under Sherlock’s t-shirt, skidding over skin and Sherlock bites him.

The kettle shrieks and John almost screams at it, breaking the kiss, turning to dump it in the sink.

And Sherlock doesn’t let go of him.

“John.”

“This is what’s causing you to—“

John gets a quick glimpse of Sherlock, face drawn as if he’s frustrated beyond belief and then he’s talking low against John’s jaw, “You were there, and you shouldn’t have been, but you were there and I hadn’t understood what he would do, I’m so _blind_ , I should’ve known because if I were him, I would have done the same, it’s the exact, _perfect_ thing to do, attack your enemy’s—“

“Shut it, _just shut it_ ,” John’s desperate for Sherlock to stop talking, even if it’s a confession in a way, “you aren’t him and you never will be, you have me, so you will _never_ —“

Then he’s kissing Sherlock, long and greedy and John licks their lips together and tastes salt. He wants to break the skin and taste Sherlock’s blood.

He’s taken Sherlock’s brain and put it in his head, so he knows this much and this much completely and he hears himself saying, "I know, Sherlock, I do know."

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, Sherlock in his lungs like water, and he doesn’t care until Sherlock pulls away, fingers stroking down the front of John’s jumper.

Those sea eyes, his mouth red and he’s smirking like a challenge, a bloody great challenge, as if he knows something John doesn’t, but John puts his teeth against Sherlock’s throat and says, “You’re an ongoing case.”

Sherlock has a heart and John wants to taste it.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Poe. "The Murders in the Rue Morgue." Read it if you haven't.
> 
> You can also comment at my LJ: [here](http://bashfulbetty.livejournal.com/1602.html)


End file.
